Long Summer Day (68 page)

‘Get down,’ he said, curtly, ‘for I can’t say what I’ve got to say to you jog-jogging along the beach!’ and when she only stared at him, he jumped down, threw both sets of reins over his arm and half yanked her from the saddle, although the effort gave his ribs a twinge that made him grunt with pain.

‘Listen to me …’ she began and he guessed that she was on the point of reassuming her role of nurse.

‘No, I won’t,’ he said, ‘I’ve been “listening” long enough and always to women of one sort or another! I don’t give a damn what your father or the Valley think about it and I’m not interested in what happened four years ago, or two years ago, or two minutes ago! If I get a divorce will you marry me? And if you do will you guarantee to stay put and not run off and open a tea-shop at our first difference of opinion?’

‘You’re insufferable!’ she said, trying to dodge between the horses but he caught her round the waist, dropped the reins and kissed her on the lips. It was a claim advanced with such determination that it threw her weight against the bay, who shied seawards and made off at a smart trot with reins trailing over the sand.

‘Well?’ he said, without relaxing his hold, ‘what else do I have to do to convince you?’

‘You might ride after Rusty and take me somewhere a little more private,’ she suggested, ‘for if anyone sees us from the cliff path I shall be packed off to Tunbridge Wells again within an hour of getting home!’

‘I’ll catch him but wait here!’ he said, and dashed off after the bay. She stood watching him circle and head the horse off, hands pressed to her tousled hair, a slow, half-rueful smile puckering the corners of her mouth. How was she to know that her thoughts were identical to his when she said to herself, ‘Well, if we had pushed that first encounter in the woods to its logical conclusion we should have saved everybody a great deal of time, trouble and expense!’

III

P
aul saw Zorndorff’s motor standing in the yard when he rode in shortly before sunset, a shining, snub-nosed monster considerably more impressive than the first motor to descend the Valley under the inexpert guidance of young Rudd two years before. He was surprised, for he had not expected Franz to respond in person to his letter and had in fact resigned himself to making another journey to London.

He found the Croat already established in the library, with Mrs Handcock fussing round him, impressed by his air of polite patronage and treating him as though he was a distinguished relative of the family, paying a duty call on Squire and his chawbacons. He was as neat and dapper as ever, in what he imagined to be ‘country clothes’, a pair of salt-and-pepper knickerbockers, a pleated Norfolk jacket, heavy brogues and brown worsted stockings; there was also a carnation in his buttonhole. He embraced Paul warmly, at once issuing orders for supper, as though this was one of his shooting lodges and Paul was a welcome but unexpected guest. Paul said, ‘I didn’t expect you to come down here, Uncle Franz. I intended coming up to see you as soon as you had news from the solicitors,’ but Franz replied, patting his shoulder, ‘Nonsense, my boy! I know you loathe London and I’ve been promising myself to pay you a visit for I don’t know how long.’

‘For four years,’ Paul told him, smiling, ‘and it took a situation like this to get you here! How long do you intend staying?’

‘Oh, I’m afraid I shall have to be off bright and early in the morning,’ the old man said and the regret in his voice was so counterfeit that Paul laughed but made no protest, realising that the country had the same effect upon Franz as urban sprawl had upon himself. It occurred to him also that this distaste of open spaces might have helped to establish the contact between Franz and Grace and that had led to the casual postscript of Uncle Franz’s last letter, for he had written,
‘Grace called at the yard and I took the unfortunate little pigeon out to dinner.’
The use of the word ‘unfortunate’ had irritated Paul at the time, implying as it did that Grace was the injured party but after reflection he had made allowances for Franz’s kind heart and had obeyed an impulse to write him a frank letter expressing his wish to marry again and asking Franz to sound their London firm of solicitors on the prospect of a divorce. And now here he was in person, barely forty-eight hours after receiving the letter, yet for all his despatch he did not seem over-anxious to discuss the situation. It was not until after supper, when the glow of sunset filled the room and Franz had examined Paul’s current bank statements, that he pushed the papers aside, removed his half-moon spectacles, and said, ‘Well, my boy, you’ve shown me your figures so I’ll show you mine!’ and had unlatched his briefcase giving Paul the impression that he was due for yet another lecture on the amount of money he had poured into the estate over the last few years. Instead Uncle Franz opened a buff folder and took from it the receipted bill of a hotel called The Golden Angel, at Windsor, handing it to Paul without comment. The bill related to a two-day stay at the hotel by a ‘Mr and Mrs James Monteith’, and for a moment it meant nothing at all to him. Then he turned it over and found a piece of notepaper attached to it with a paperclip. On the note, in Grace’s handwriting, was written,
‘Will this do? If not let me know at once—Grace!

He stared at the note curiously, conscious of the old man’s eyes on him and said, without any attempt to hide his distaste, ‘Is this how one goes about it? Is this the legal way?’ and Franz chuckled, replying, ‘Not strictly legal, Paul, but it serves. More than half the divorces granted nowadays are arrived at by similar means and you might consider yourself fortunate that Grace is willing to accommodate you without being paid for it! Most wives would value that evidence at say a thousand guineas or a settlement but then, she’s an eccentric girl, wouldn’t you agree?’

The receipt, the note and its obvious implications moderated Paul’s pleasure at seeing the old man again after so long an interval. He said, briefly, ‘I don’t know much about this kind of thing but I was under the impression a divorce could be obtained on grounds of desertion.’

‘So it could,’ Franz said, ‘providing you and the lady you hope to marry are prepared to wait about five years, plus the time the suit would take to get heard. This is by far the quickest and cheapest way of going about it.’

‘And the most unsavoury,’ Paul said.

‘That’s for her to judge, isn’t it?’

He said this with such a ferocious lift of his eyebrows, that Paul’s sense of injustice was roused.

‘Damn it, Franz, am I to understand from that that you sympathise with her?’

‘To some extent,’ the old man replied frankly, ‘but also with you, my boy, for now that I know her better it seems to me to have been an extraordinarily ill-considered affair on both sides! To my mind you are entirely incompatible and you aren’t such a fool as not to have recognised that by now!’

A few months ago Paul might have argued the case with some heat but now he had enough philosophy to appreciate the old man’s difficulties as go-between and also his obvious willingness to help in any way he could.

‘There’s no point in raking over the past, Uncle Franz,’ he said, ‘and I daresay it’s sporting of you to involve yourself. If we did proceed along these lines would Grace and I have to meet again?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘not necessarily. The fact that she sent me that bill means she wouldn’t defend the case. You would have to attend, of course, but it isn’t the ordeal most people imagine, it’s becoming rather fashionable I’m told.’

‘Fashionable or not it’s something I don’t relish,’ said Paul. ‘Did you see her on more than that one occasion when you took her to dinner?’

The old man twinkled. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I’ve seen her several times. As a matter of fact she came to me to discuss the possibilities of letting you go free before you wrote but I didn’t take any action because I couldn’t be sure you weren’t anxious to have her back on any terms. As soon as you wrote I got in touch with her and that bill arrived by return of post.’

Paul studied the bill again and asked, ‘Who is James Monteith?’ and Franz sighing, said, ‘You really do live in another age down here, Paul! He’s no one in particular.’

‘He isn’t someone Grace has taken up with?’

‘Knowing her I should think it extremely unlikely. He’s almost certainly a professional, someone to whom she paid money for the purpose of getting evidence.’

‘Good God!’ Paul exclaimed, ‘I’ve heard of women employed in that respect but never men!’

‘I still don’t think you really understand the situation,’ Franz said, patiently. ‘In almost all these cases it’s accepted that the man takes the initiative, on the assumption that he has less to lose than the woman, but as the law stands you would have to provide evidence of adultery and cruelty and refuse to have her back. Well, for your information, Grace won’t hear of anything like that but not simply because she recognises you as the injured party. She won’t be under obligation to a man, so as far as I can see it will have to be that evidence or a long wait. You would have to write inviting her back and she would have to reject the offer. It could drag on for years and she considers this would be most unfair on you. If I were in your shoes I should give me instructions to go right ahead on what you have there.’

‘Tell me honestly, Franz, does it make any kind of sense to you? I don’t mean simply her approach to divorce but her entire attitude to life?’

‘No,’ said Zorndorff, ‘not sense but there’s a kind of glory in it.’

‘Glory?’

‘Yes, glory. These women see themselves as a vanguard carving out a new social structure. There have always been minorities set on martyrdom. The early Christians were one and some people might even include the Lollards and Lutherans in the parade. The world usually begins by mocking them, then slams them behind bars and ends by canonising them! Today the fabric of society is changing at frightful speed and although the process has now been going for quite some time it’s only recently that people are sitting up and taking notice.’

‘Then I suppose you class me with the minority who won’t face up to change and take refuge in a bolt-hole like this?’

‘No,’ said Franz, ‘not altogether and neither, I think, does Grace. A man ought to follow his destiny and yours is clearly here doing what you believe yourself capable of doing. Take my advice, my boy, and let her have her own way about this, and I tell you that not because I agree or disagree with her but because I happen to know it will ease her conscience. Believe me, she has one, and it’s troubling her a good deal!’

He seemed to prefer to leave the matter there and went on to talk of more general matters, of the stimulating effect the Dreadnought race with Germany was having upon the price of scrap-iron, the increasing pressure building up under the new Liberal Government for an avalanche of social legislation, of matters that were common currency to him but to Paul were little more than London newspaper topics. They talked on in the small hours and when Paul had shown him to his room, and they stood together at the open window looking out over a paddock bathed in moonlight, Franz said, ‘Well, it doesn’t look as if much has changed around here since the Tudors but it will, although I daresay it will last you out, or maybe you’ll be so set in your ways you won’t even notice the differences.’

Paul said stubbornly, ‘I’m not afraid of differences, Uncle Franz. My policy here involves change. What I am opposed to is dissolution.’

‘Ah, I daresay,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘and who isn’t? Sometimes I think we’re all heading for perdition but so long as we get a choice of route I’m satisfied. You stick to yours, Paul, and let Grace stick to hers! That’s my advice, for what it’s worth.’

Paul said good night and went along to his own room, where Mrs Handcock had lit the small lamp and shadows were playing hide-and-seek in the window draught. He sat on the bed and pulled off his tall boots that he wore almost exclusively in these days, for he was on horseback most working days. The strong Maxwell boots gave support to a leg still inclined to trouble him where the tendons surrounding his Transvaal wound had been strained during his buffeting in the cove. Tonight there was an ache in his heart as he thought, with a touch of nostalgia, ‘This room was her creation and whenever we were alone in it we were at peace. If I marry again I suppose Claire will make changes but a man doesn’t slough off a woman as easily as all that, not when he’d held her in his arms through long winter nights.’ He got up restlessly and padded over to the window, flinging it wide and sniffing the night air, heavy with the scent of the woods. ‘Franz talks of changes,’ he thought, ‘but I feel their presence myself tonight. So many things have changed since I spent my first night here; Martin Codsall and Arabella were alive then, and Tamer Potter, and poor old Smut was ranging the woods, poaching deer; Lord Gilroy’s tame M.P. represented us at Westminster and now Grenfell’s up there at my instance, making what he can of this clamour for change. Simon was born in this room and Grace spent her last night at Shallowford here, with me beside her, never dreaming what was in her mind. All this, in four years! I wonder what the next four will bring?’

Over in the chestnuts an owl hooted and from the rhododendrons nearer the house came the sounds of a stealthy scuffle. He yawned, feeling detached from the past yet near enough to look back and savour its bitterness and sweetness. Then he thought of Claire, of her smooth oval face, pink and white freshness and the repose she seemed to have acquired during her exile and suddenly he felt more cheerful, flung off his clothes and climbed into bed. ‘Maybe I’ll stop shaping things and let ’em happen in future,’ he told himself and on this compromise he slept.

IV

P
aul’s moment of self-revelation, and what came of it down by the landslip, released a spate of letter-writing up and down the Valley. The Sorrel people were shy of pen and ink. Some of them had never written a letter in their lives and a majority were content to scrawl greetings on Christmas cards once a year but events in the cove during the early spring, and their appearance on the front pages of newspapers, made the Valley folk aware of themselves as a clan. Some, with relatives in other parts of the West, followed up with news of events that grew out of the wreck, notably the Squire’s intention to divorce his wife and marry Claire Derwent as soon as he was free.